


Naked Lunch

by glasgow_blue



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-20
Updated: 2004-06-20
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasgow_blue/pseuds/glasgow_blue





	

For jerel: _blue, plate, special_

Title: Naked Lunch  
Word count:525  
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.  
Crossposted: [](http://fellow-shippers.livejournal.com/profile)[**fellow_shippers**](http://fellow-shippers.livejournal.com/)

There's a girl at the next table with long red hair. She's reading a book, but Billy knows the game is already afoot--he's seen her sneaking glances across the spine. It's only a matter of time before she'll come over with a pen and an out-stretched palm.

He sizes her up, glances at his watch, and makes a bet with himself. Six minutes. Maybe as many as eight if the waitress shows up at a critical juncture. Ten on the outside, with allowances for natural disaster, armed robbery, or the sudden arrival of Jesus on a motorbike.

She turns the page. Taps her foot. Takes a sip of tea from a pale blue mug. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Billy turns to his menu. What he really wants is a proper order of fish and chips fresh out of the fryer and folded into yesterday's Globe. With a nice lager to cut the heft of the grease. What they've got is nothing close.

Five kinds of salad. Grilled salmon. Grilled chicken with basil and artichoke. Four kinds of low carb pasta. _Low carb pasta?_ There is a sautéed grouper, but Billy makes a strict point of never eating a fish that is bigger than his own head. Especially if it isn't even fried. The only thing that even resembles chips are oven-roasted yam strips with a honey-ginger dipping sauce.

The waitress comes, but Billy waves her off. Instead, she clears the girl's table and plates clank, reminding him of his bet. Billy's fingers begin to twitch. It's a conditioned response. He sees a pretty girl and turns into one of Pavlov's dogs, salivating for the chance to smile, chat, and sign whatever gets put in front of him.

He can sign his name in his sleep now and has done so on more than one occasion--including an unfortunate incident at Dom's place that left one wall looking a bit like a public toilet stall.

Sometimes, he signs and signs and signs until the letters spell nothing at all. Until they become another language and Billy feels the need to ask for an interpreter. When that happens, he sits up late writing out anagrams of his name.

William Boyd  
A BOLD WILY I AM  
ADLIB WILY OM  
BALD I WILY YOWL  
A BLOW ID LIMY

He makes words and phrases until the letters make sense again. Until he can reclaim them.

Billy's watch chimes out the hour and he realizes that fifteen minutes have passed. He's lost the bet. Low carb pasta with chipotle chicken it is. In Scotland, they would at least have the common decency to batter and deep fry the poor bird.

The waitress is busy with a table of studio reps. The girl is still reading, but she's packing up her bag with one hand. Soon, then. On the way out.

Billy cracks his knuckles. Wonders what makes being in movies special enough that people want your autograph.

But she doesn't stop. She breezes by him with a bright smile and disappears out into the day, leaving only a slight whiff of citrus perfume.

When the waitress comes back, Billy orders the steak.


End file.
